


Waiting For The Credits

by Arkhaline



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkhaline/pseuds/Arkhaline
Summary: Despite the chaos consuming the battlefield around him, Tucker can only focus on the man in front of him. Washington isn’t going to die.Right?





	Waiting For The Credits

That dull thud. That dull, god forsaken thud, alternating on and on, pounding in his skull. He has absolutely no idea if it’s his feet beneath him, or his heartbeat coursing through his veins, or the chaos enveloping the world around him. The world is a blur and he can’t process it, but what little awareness he still possesses lets him know that he is _running_.

      He’s bounding across the battlefield, not giving a second thought to the bullets whizzing past him, missing their mark by a hair. The ground is flying under his feet and he realizes he’s going fast, so fast he’ll overshoot his target. He forces his legs to give out, and his knee pads screech in protest as he skids across the rocky terrain. He finds himself coming to a stop right beside the motionless form sprawled on the ground—the form of his closet friend, of his leader. Of _Wash_.

      Frantic doesn’t even begin to describe his movements as he forces down the releases on Wash’s helmet. Tucker’s mouth is moving, and only then does he realize he was screaming for cover fire. Someone complies and he turns his gaze back to Wash. His eyes are glazed, but Wash’s pupils contract in face of the sudden light. Tucker hopes that’s a good sign. With a shuddering gasp, Wash’s eyes clear and he begins coughing violently. Tucker freezes because that cough was wet, far too wet. A message blinks on Tucker’s HUD to let him know that Grey is en route, but he can’t be bothered to respond as his eyes scan Wash for the source of his pain, halting at the bloody mess streaming from the Kevlar. The bullet wound landed in the chink of his armor between his chestplate and his left leg piece. Crimson stains the ground beneath them at an alarming rate, and Tucker has absolutely no idea what to do.

      Slowly, Wash turns his head. ”Tucker...?” The weak shakiness of his voice forces the air out of Tucker’s lungs, and every ounce of him is screaming in fear because what Wash just said was not a statement but a question.

      ”Yeah. Fuck, yeah. I’m here, Wash. I’m here.”

      ”I— There was... and the gun...,” Incoherent sentence fragments stream from his mouth, his skin around his eyes tightens with the strain that comes with forming even these jumbled phrases.

      ”I know, man. I know. Shit. Look, Grey is on her way, alright? Just hold on for me. You can do that, right?” After a long, agonizing moment, Wash nods, only to cough up more blood. Fuck. Tucker haphazardly presses his glove against the bullet’s entry point, his hand stained with more and more red as every heartbeat passes. A sharp hiss escapes Wash’s lips, and Tucker can’t stop himself from wincing. Quickly, he lifts his head to scan their surroundings. His friends are diligently fighting off their attackers, but he knows that they can’t guarantee Wash and he will be safe from all attacks. The banter of the Reds and Blues goes unheard by Tucker, his ears not listening to the voices streaming through his headset in light of recent events. He leaves Wash’s side for as little time as he possibly can, flipping a mongoose to provide cover and pretending like Wash didn’t just whimper when he pulled away. Gently, Tucker presses his hand back against the wound, using his right hand to fumble with the releases on his own helmet. He angles his head over Wash’s and raises his eyes to meet the one’s below him, forcing the fear from his gaze. The blonde blinks slowly and lazily, his face dangerously pale and his eyes strained with exhaustion, seemingly fading with every second that ticks by. He has to keep him alert, has to keep him with him somehow.

      ”What’s your name?” Tucker blurts. There’s a hesitance in his voice that he absolutely despises, but he reluctantly acknowledges it as justified. Wash takes one shuttering breath. Two. Finally, he whispers his answer so quietly that Tucker can barely hear it over the gunfire around them. “Dav’d.” Tucker freezes. He had never heard Wash’s real name before, assuming that was it and not a word conjured by his delirium. These shouldn’t be the circumstances he learned something so personal, and damn it, he shouldn’t be learning this when Wash was in no state of mind to actively trust him with it. The confusion and shock must have been evident on Tucker’s face, because Wash’s eyes clenched shut, his irises moving beneath eyelids as he searched for the correct answer. With no small amount of effort, his eyes open once more. “W-Wash’ngton. M’ name’s Wash,” he slurs.

      Tucker can’t hide his sigh of relief as Wash’s eyes appear to clear some. ”Good. Good job, Wash. Now, what’s my name?”

      “Y’re...” Wash takes a breath as he pauses to think. “Car’lin— no. No, y‘re... y’re Tuck’r.”

      A sad grin appears on Tucker’s face, leaving as suddenly as it came when more blood begins to pool in Wash’s mouth. He begins hacking, curling in on himself as blood speckles the outside of Tucker’s chestplate. ”That’s right. Fuck, I— come on, stay with me, Wash. Help is on its way.” Crimson is dripping from Wash’s parted lips down his cheek, dripping on the dirt. The constellations of freckles decorating Wash’s face stand out in stark contrast to his ever-flushing skin. Slowly, Wash lowers his head and rests it on the ground, his tired eyes raising to meet his.

      ”’M sorry Tuck’r. ‘M so sorry,” he heaves, and Tucker’s heart twists because this can’t be what he think it is; he can’t be saying goodbye.

      ”No,” he declares, and Wash jumps, his brow furrowing as he scans Tucker’s face. “Don’t you _dare_ be fucking sorry. You are going to be alright, you hear me? You don’t get to be dramatic. You don’t get to fucking die on me. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not here, not now.” His voice cracks with his growing volume, his vision blurring as his eyes prickle with tears. This is all too fucking real and he’s not prepared in the fucking slightest. His eyes flick to the HUD peering at him from the opening of his helmet. Grey is still a hundred yards out, and he preys that she’ll make it here in time.

      Wash lets out a melancholic sigh. ”Tuck’r...”

      ”No. You do _not_ get to leave us,” he demands before dropping his voice to a whisper. His body shaking, wracked with silent sobs as he breaks Wash’s gaze. “You do not get to leave _me_.” Wash’s eyes fill with sorrow, and despite the tremendous effort is must take his weakening body, his hand shakily raises, wavering fingers loosely securing themselves around Tucker’s shoulder.

      ”T’ke care of ‘em for me, ‘kay? ‘N case I ‘on’t make it,” he gives a faint, closed-mouth smile, and Tucker can’t breathe, can’t fucking breathe, because there is no way that this is it, that this is where it ends—

      “Wash, Wash _please_ , _please don’t leave me_ ,” his voice is full of agony as hot tears stream down his cheeks, mixing with the dark puddles beneath them. He doesn’t care if he’s begging because, quite frankly, desperation has trumped nearly every other emotion he has.

      ”I’ll try,” he whispers, his voice laced with a softness that Tucker has never heard from Wash before.

      It’s like being in a movie, he realizes. You can watch and you can scream at the characters but there is not a goddamn thing you can do to change what is happening. Tucker is forced to watch as the music cuts out and the world grows ever-so-slightly darker and time slows to a crawl. Tucker is forced to watch his best friend, still looking at him with gentle eyes, take a final, shuddering breath before his eyes slip closed.

      Wash’s hand hits the floor with a dull thud, lidded eyes boring into Tucker’s shattering soul. His right hand flies to his face, trying to force back the tears that come flooding through the fragile levees constructed in his mind. Wash is comatose, not dead, and Tucker has been a soldier long enough for this to be drilled into his brain. Even so, his left hand stays desperately pressed against the wound, ignoring the decreasing amount of blood splashing against his hand as his heartbeat weakens. He finds himself praying that Grey gets here before Wash dies. He won’t. He can’t, he just can’t.

      Tucker can’t hear, can’t tell what’s going on because his breathing is growing rapid and unsteady, his pulse racing. He doesn’t realize the gunfire has stopped, doesn’t notice Grey crouching next to them, doesn’t move from Wash’s side as Grey pries his hand away. He can’t leave, because he has to have faith that there’s still a movie for him to be a part of, for Wash to be a part of.

      He just has to have faith.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write something, so I decided to just go for it. Constructive criticism is more than welcome. I’m not sure whether I should write an additional chapter, or if I should just leave it be. Comment your thoughts below. Thank you so much for reading!


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